


Cappadocia: A Collection

by kryptic



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Gen, Gore, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-30
Updated: 2012-09-30
Packaged: 2017-11-15 08:19:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/525148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kryptic/pseuds/kryptic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short collection of drabbles written about Shahkulu, some of his pathos, and plenty of gore.   Do NOT read if these themes make you uneasy.<br/>More chapters may be added in the future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Pain. The sensation permeated Shahkulu’s life -- whether it was a child’s grief at the decimation of his homeland or the physical ache and sting of a soldier’s wounds in the midst of war, pain was an ever-present aspect of his life. But he found time for pain. He found pleasure in it.

On others, of course.

He had fallen into a sick sort of perversion as the years went on – a desire to relieve his own inner turmoil through the suffering of others. He tried every method, exercised every possible technique. The screams of his family, still imprinted so vividly on his memory, acted as a guide. He wielded pain as an artist might manipulate paint. The body was his canvas. Another cut here, a brand of red-hot iron applied there, bones broken and twisted and bent so that the figure in front of him barely resembled a human being any longer, and his masterpiece was on its way to completion.

The end product was elusive, but his objective was clear. He strove always to match the exact volume, the exact pitch and timbre and intensity of his father’s screams. 

And his mother’s. 

His sisters’.

His own.

He chose his victims carefully beforehand, not knowing quite what it was that he searched for until he found it. Perhaps this one had the wide cheekbones and kind face so like his mother’s, this one the dramatic widow’s peak and jet black hair of his father, this one the large, almond eyes of his youngest sister. Whatever it was, he chose them, paid special mind to them as if they were his own – even spoke to them as he never did with any other, asked them for their names and inquired after their families and the places they called home. And once he had drawn the proper sound from their throats, he watched their limp bodies as they were carried away, smiling under his metal mask with twisted approval.

Pain.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He adds another method to his arsenal.

Today, he had chosen a new method, an idea which had come upon him as if from a dream, edging into the haze of his mind as he first stirred in the morning. From that very instant, he had been dreaming about the moment when he would test the concept with increasing anticipation and glee. Perhaps, if it was worthy, he could add it to the many techniques he named his own inventions. The new blade he had acquired that morning, while it had increased his eagerness for the moment, was nothing more than a coincidence. Still, he saw fit to capitalize upon it.

His captive awaited him, tied down and nearly unconscious. Helpless to defend himself. Just as my family was, Shahkulu repeated. It seemed that the thought never left his head. Now, for the umpteenth time, the Turkmen renegade would seek revenge. Funny how satisfaction never came. And how unfortunate for the Ottoman spies who fell into his clutches. This one had already been beaten severely, though the fear of the lieutenant was enough to draw him instantly from the marsh of unconsciousness. He jerked at the sound of Shahkulu’s footfalls, fighting hoarsely against his gag with a voice that would not come.

He did not speak until he was painfully close, near enough to see the whites of the man’s eyes, and in them, sheer terror.

“I picked up a new knife today. Would you like to help try it out?”

Shahkulu did not wait for an answer. With a powerful swing of his arm, he buried the glistening steel in the man’s chest, ripping a hole down his middle with no thought for tidiness. The serrated blade tore viciously through the prisoner’s flesh, adding a jagged texture to the cut which the Renegade found he quite enjoyed. He made a brief mental note to try out more of these custom blades while removing his gloves, putting them aside before they became further stained with blood. Besides, it was much more immersive experience to feel the liquid crust and dry on his bare skin, to be scrubbed away afterward in flakes. Or he could simply leave it on his skin, pull his gloves back on to conceal it and wear the Ottoman’s rotting lifeblood on his hands all day. Whichever option he ended up choosing, Shahkulu wanted to enjoy this session in every possible way.

So it was with bare hands that he reached into the slick, gaping cavity of the man’s chest. He had been inside of a person before, but never like this. It was so much like being with a woman - wet and soft and thrilling, making his chest heave with excitement. He violated the man against his will, causing pain and terror with every movement, the strength of his hands now amplified a thousandfold while they ripped through the tender interior of another person’s body. Better than sex could ever be. The power he felt was intoxicating and almost tangible, the power of holding a person’s life in the palm of his hand. Soon, he would do so literally.

Questing under the ribcage, he finally found his target - still beating rapidly, with no idea of the violent intentions that would soon destroy it. He had thought it beautiful to hear the hoarse breaths of a victim in his ears or feel their pulse resonating through flesh and bone, but this sensation eclipsed every other. It was deeply intimate, more so than he could have ever imagined. 

The organ pulsed against his skin, fluttering desperately like the wings of a captured bird. A rare smile spread across Shahkulu’s face, cradling the heart in one of his massive hands. His expression quickly soured into a sneer, an insane cackle rising from his throat as he wrenched the man’s heart out, holding it aloft in the lamplight. Blood spurted from the uneven tears, running between his fingers, squirting down to the floor, and wrapping its gentle tendrils around his arm. It captured a reflection of the flame so perfectly, making this art form the most exquisite of masterpieces in his estimation. When a warm droplet fell onto his face, Shahkulu could not resist the urge to flick his tongue out and taste it. Blood straight from a human heart. It did not get much fresher than that.

The man’s horror in his dying breaths was the most magnificent sight he had seen in years.


End file.
